“Yes, mother.”
“Daughter, how long are you going to swing? Come and do some frying. Make a few fritters.”
After Tahirah left, he went to Sabbo: “Sabbo, come on, let’s swing.”
When he sat pressed close to Sabirah in the swing, he felt that tenderness was melting and spreading inside him. He wanted to keep on swinging, but Sabirah’s moods never held steady for long. “I won’t swing with you.” She suddenly jumped down from the swing.
“Why?” He was dumbfounded.
“I just won’t, that’s all.”
He was left standing, surprised and unhappy. Then, very slowly, he approached her.
“Sabbo.”
“I’m not speaking to you.”
When he found Sabirah impossible to placate, he went sadly away. He happened to wander off toward the stairs. Climbing them, he reached the open roof. The roof was made of unfired clay; since the rainy season had ended long ago, the mud had hardened. From his pocket he pulled out the broken penknife-blade he always carried to sharpen his pencils. He began to slice the hardened mud with the tip of it as though he was cutting out sweets. In a little while Sabirah too wandered up there. With great attention she watched him cutting sweets. But now he was absorbed in his work. He paid no attention to Sabirah. When he had had his fill of cutting out the sweets, he invented a new occupation for himself. Where the mud had grown driest, he began to dig into it. When he had dug a small hole, he put one of his feet into it, and pressed all the loose dirt firmly back on top. Then he slowly pulled his foot out. A kind of dirt cave remained. Sabirah was watching with great attention. Then she said, “What is it?”
“A grave.” He answered casually, without looking toward Sabirah.
“It’s a grave?” Sabirah asked in surprise.
“Yes.”
She regarded the grave with wonder. Then she spoke with a kind of warmth in her tone. “Zakir, make me a grave too.”
“Make it yourself,” he answered shortly.
Sabirah, giving up on him, began to work on making her own grave. She scratched out a considerable amount of dirt. She put her bare foot into the scratched-out place. Then she pressed the loose dirt down on top of it. Then she slowly pulled out her foot. The moment her foot came away, the dirt roof fell in. At her failure, he burst out laughing. But Sabirah didn’t lose heart. She tried a second time, and again was unsuccessful. She tried again a third time, and this time she really drew her foot out so delicately that not even a grain of dirt fell. Sabirah gave herself airs at her success, and glanced at his grave, then looked at her own. “My grave is better.”
“Sure, it’s very fine.” He made a face at Sabirah.
“Put your foot in and see.”
He hesitated at this proposal. He thought a bit. Then, very slowly, he put his foot forward, and slid it into Sabirah’s grave. Then he was convinced in his heart that Sabbo was right. And for some time he kept his foot in that soft, warm grave.
After that, his vexation disappeared. His relations with Sabirah again became friendly. When Sabirah’s grave collapsed as she was remaking it, he cleaned off her white foot with his hands. Then he pulled out a shell from his pocket.
“Sabbo, would you like a shell?”
“Yes I would.” She looked covetously at the shell.
Taking the shell from him, Sabirah made an offering in return: “Come on, let’s swing.”
As they were coming down from the roof, they heard Tahirah and her friend singing:
“Mother, the fruits are soft, Mother, I won’t eat them, Mother.
Mother, the water is high, Mother, I won’t bathe, Mother.
Mother, the yellow-green dress is ready,
Mother, I won’t wear it, Mother.
Mother, my husband has brought a palanquin, Mother, I won’t go, Mother.”
They turned back, and again went and sat on the roof. Now what to do? He proposed a new scheme: “Sabbo!”
“Yes?”
“Come on, let’s play bridegroom and bride.”
“Bridegroom and bride?” She was taken aback.
“Yes, as though I’m the bridegroom and you’re the bride.”
“Someone will see.” She was nervous.
Just then thunder rumbled in the clouds, scaring them both, and at once the rain came down so hard that before they got from the open roof to the staircase they were both drenched.
•
How forcefully the rainy season began! Inside, outside, everywhere was commotion; but when it went on raining at a steady pace, the atmosphere slowly filled with a kind of sadness and voices were gradually silenced. When evening fell, the stray call of a peacock came from deep in the forest, and mingled more sadness with the sad, rainy evening. Then night came, and the rain-soaked darkness grew deep and dense. If anyone woke in the night, the rain was falling as though it had been raining for an endless eternity, and would keep on raining for an endless eternity. But that night was so well-populated by voices.
“Look, Krishan hasn’t come, the clouds have closed in,
The night is dark and black, the rain rains so cruelly,
Sleep won’t come to my eyes, the clouds have closed in,
Cloud-dark Krishan hasn’t come, the clouds have closed in.”
“Oh, these Hindu women won’t let us get a wink of sleep tonight! And on top of it the rain keeps coming down.”
“Bi Amma, this is the Janamashtami rain!” Auntie Sharifan elaborated: “Krishan-ji’s diapers are being washed.”
“Well, by now Krishan-ji’s diapers have been washed quite enough! The water is overflowing.” Bi Amma turned over, and again tried to get to sleep. Just then in Vasanti’s verandah a drum struck up:
“Oh Ram, I went to the Yamuna to draw water,
On the way I met Nand Lal,
Ai, my sister-in-law wept—”
And from somewhere far away a voice was coming,
“The night is enjoyable, lover, will you go or will you stay?
The bed is springy, lover, will you go or will you stay?”
It was as if the whole season’s rain had made up its mind to fall during the night of Janamashtami. In the morning when he woke, no rain or clouds at all. Everything around was glowing, freshly washed. Sky, trees, electric poles, walls, roofs.
“Zakir! Come on, let’s go catch rain-bugs.”
When Bundu made this proposal, they at once set out from the house, and went in search of rain-bugs beyond the Black Temple to Karbala. How soft and bright the earth and sky were just then, and here and there in the grass so many rain-bugs, like soft bits of velvet, were crawling. What pleasure it was to touch them! In those days he wanted so much to touch soft things, but the moment they were touched, the rain-bugs pulled in their legs and stayed still, as though they were dead. Why do soft things shy away so much from being touched? He marveled at it.
“Sabbo! Look at this.”
“Oh my, so many rain-bugs!” She was full of amazement and delight. And then she treated him so warmly. In a single moment how close she used to come to him; in a single moment how far away she used to go.
“Sabbo! Come and play.”
“I won’t play.”
“I have cowrie-shells.”
“What do I care?”
“Look at this, it’s a whirligig.”
“Huh.” She turned her head away.
He went on twirling the whirligig all by himself, for a long time. Then he pulled out his yo-yo and began to play with it. How much he enjoyed spinning the yo-yo!
“They say it was Laila’s custom…”
In the midst of spinning the yo-yo, he paused with a start: “Majnun has come.” And forgetting the yo-yo, he ran off like an arrow toward the door. When he stood in the doorway, he saw that Sabirah was standing there too. “Zakir! It’s Majnun!”